It was close to 11 p.m. I grabbed my keys and rushed downstairs. I counted eight police cars, plus firefighters and a few unmarked cars.
One of the best “playgrounds” in Nantes is free—it’s the Château des Ducs de Bretagne, the former Castle of the Dukes of Brittany.
It’s fascinating how the weather can change the mood of a scene in a matter of hours or minutes.
When I’m done eavesdropping on people and when the streets are quiet, I read the little notes humans leave to each other.
We drink water, splash water on us whenever we get the chance, sweat like crazy, try to hang out or walk by the river or the seaside to cool off.
Mark speeds through the city on his beloved trottinette, apparently committed to winning the 2018 Trottinette World Cup.
There’s a quirky roundabout in the middle of the main street and it’s decorated with bizarre giant sculptures or structures celebrating a local tradition or specialty.
We spend ten minutes trying to figure out whether we want to go to Saint-Brevin-les-Pins or Saint-Brevin-l’Océan and end up in Saint-Brevin-les-Pins where we realize this was not the beach we were aiming for.
At one point, I must have turned old and boring because now, I actually like going to the museum.
Planning to travel to Europe can be stressful. With several different aspects of your trip…
Cours des 50 otages, a handful of migrants as well as local supporters were protesting against yet another eviction.
The juilletistes (neologism for people taking their holidays in July) are going back to work. Now it’s the aoûtiens’ turn to take time off.
It doesn’t rain in Nantes—or rather, few locals just say “il pleut” when they see water falling from the sky.
It’s been six years that every time I go to Nantes in July or August, the first thing I notice is the annual art festival with installations scattered throughout the city.
French eat croque-monsieur, Parisien sandwiches, mayonnaise and Prince cookies, for instance.
At 9:30 p.m., watching a Celtic circle dancing the An Dro in the public square in front of Saint-Michel’s lighthouse, I realized I had the most cliché French day ever.
“I don’t have my driver’s licence either. I didn’t take anything with me,” my dad admits. “Papa! Okay, let me speak.”
I freaked out when 24 hours before flying to France, Feng suggested—apparently, it was just a suggestion—we should travel without Mark’s Chicco stroller.
Not all fountains are clean and I don’t recommend taking a dip with your swimsuit on, especially if you’re older than ten (you will draw strange looks from locals).
On Monday morning, at 9 a.m., the infamous French CRS (“Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité”), the French national police force specializing in crowd and riot control, swarmed into square Daviais.
I used to miss speaking French. I remember how exhausted I felt at the end of the day, my brain working hard to decipher English and to find an acceptable way to put words on my thoughts.
Last Sunday, just seven days ago, France was winning the 2018 FIFA World Cup after beating Croatia 4-2 in the final.
It didn’t take me long to see one major difference in Nantes compared to last year.
“Are we in France, already?”
We walk by a couple kissing passionately outside the departure hall, in front of gate 12.